“My heart tells me that the young woman he is gone to visit is no other than Amabel,” said Leonard Holt, sorrowfully.

“I suspect it is Nizza Macascree,” cried Thirlby.  “Which way did your master take?”

“I did not observe,” replied the porter, “but he told me he should cross London Bridge.”

“I will go into Southwark in quest of him,” said Thirlby.  “Every moment is of consequence now.”

“You had better stay where you are,” replied the old porter.  “It is the surest way to meet with him.”

Thirlby, however, was too full of anxiety to listen to reason, and his impatience producing a corresponding effect upon Leonard, though from a different motive, they set forth together.  “If I fail to find him, you may expect me back ere long,” were Thirlby’s last words to the porter.  Hurrying along Watling-street, and taking the first turning on the right, he descended to Thames-street, and made the best of his way towards the bridge.  Leonard followed him closely, and they pursued their rapid course in silence.  By the time they reached the north gate of the bridge, Leonard found his strength failing him, and halting at one of the openings between the tall houses overlooking the river, where there was a wooden bench for the accommodation of passengers, he sank upon it, and begged Thirlby to go on, saying he would return to Watling-street as soon as he recovered from his exhaustion.  Thirlby did not attempt to dissuade him from his purpose, but instantly disappeared.

The night, it has before been remarked, was singularly beautiful.  It was almost as light as day, for the full harvest moon (alas! there was no harvest for it to smile upon!) having just risen, revealed every object with perfect distinctness.  The bench on which Leonard was seated lay on the right side of the bridge, and commanded a magnificent reach of the river, that flowed beneath like a sheet of molten silver.  The apprentice gazed along its banks, and noticed the tall spectral-looking houses on the right, until his eye finally settled on the massive fabric of Saint Paul’s, the roof and towers of which rose high above the lesser structures.  His meditations were suddenly interrupted by the opening of a window in the house near him, while a loud splash in the water told that a body had been thrown into it.  He turned away with a shudder, and at the same moment perceived a watchman, with a halberd upon his shoulder, advancing slowly towards him from the Southwark side of the bridge.  Pausing as he drew near the apprentice, the watchman compassionately inquired whether he was sick, and being answered in the negative, was about to pass on, when Leonard, fancying he recognised his voice, stopped him.

“We have met somewhere before, friend,” he said, “though where, or under what circumstances, I cannot at this moment call to mind.”

“Not unlikely,” returned the other, roughly, “but the chances are against our meeting again.”